There’s something strange about silence. They call it deafening, though it has no voice. They long for it, yet it brings such loneliness. But if you ask me, this silence is everything. I close my eyes and envision it’s nothingness like a meadow, wild and endless. I feel it’s empty whispers tickle my ears as I lay on overgrown green. My hand, twisting and pulling at roots. I scratch my skin on the back of crystallised rocks. My chest rises, and deflates again. Though I can’t hear my ballooning lungs. I can’t hear wind bully grass and trees with it’s aggressive push. I can only hear the silence, and how it’s everything but sound.